Dancing In A Hurricane
by clemencline
Summary: You can dance in a hurricane, but only if you're standing in the eye. E/O - Elliot comes back. AU in that I don't care what's happening on the show right now. Encompasses the whole E/O canon. Rated Strong T for obligatory curse words and sexual situations, but not quite at an M. Yet.
1. Chapter 1

_You can dance in a hurricane, but only if you're standing in the eye_ –Brandi Carlile, "The Eye"

Four years apart is enough time to think about what you want to say to the person who abruptly walked out of your life – tore a limb off of your body, stopped your already fragile heart. It is enough time to forget all the hurtful things you wanted to say. It is enough time to not blame him anymore. It is enough time to forgive, out of necessity, so that you may continue to live.

Olivia is a mother now. She has responsibilities. She's the sergeant now. Sergeant Benson. Mom. Olivia is a mom. She is the one who makes the decisions now. She is the captain of her own ship. She is in control. She is sturdy. Solid. Unyeilding.

And it is so fucking exhausting. She doesn't have the time, doesn't have the time to read the email that popped up last week in her inbox. The one that, upon seeing, she put instantly in the "untitled" folder. The one she can't stop thinking about. Elliot Stabler. Elliot sent her an email. Who sends emails anymore? She doesn't have the time.

It is 3 A.M. on a Sunday, and Noah's asthma has them back in the emergency room. The doctors want to keep an eye on him for a little while longer, just to make sure he's stable. Stabler. God damn Elliot Stabler.

As Noah sleeps peacefully in his triage bed, having finished his last breathing treatment, Olivia gently runs her fingers through the dark tuft of hair on her toddler's head. She finds herself like this often, in the late hours, caressing his hair, almost in reverence, almost in devotion, careful not to wake him. Careful.

The hospital is quiet. The nurses and doctors aren't peaking in quite as often. If there are any rape victims in this hospital – the one she has spent so much of her career in, of her life in – she doesn't know about them. She only knows about the ghosts, the stories that haunt these walls. She closes her eyes, and thinks about the email. Suddenly, in this hospital room, she has the time.

Olivia opens her eyes and shifts in her chair to reach around to the pocket of her jacket and grab her iPhone. She types in her passcode and stares at the home screen picture. It's of Noah – of course it's Noah. She looks at the real Noah, the one right in front of her on that bed, and smiles. Even though he is sleeping, she is smiling for him. All her smiles these days are for him.

When she looks back to the phone, she lets the smile fade. She doesn't know who to be when she opens the email. Olivia the mother is not the person who is supposed to receive that email. And though she has not read it yet, she knows that email isn't for Sergeant Benson, either. It's for Olivia. Olivia, who she hasn't been in so long.

The last time she was Olivia was when William Lewis made her put that gun to her head and pull the trigger. She thought she was going to die. The time before that was when Lewis had her tied to that metal bedframe. She thought she was going to die. The time before that, she was in an interrogation room, alone, crying violently because Elliot had turned in his papers. And then he wouldn't return her calls. And then he was gone. She thought she was going to die.

As far back as she could remember, being Olivia meant feeling like she was going to die, or someone else was going to die, and she had no control over it. It always felt like the air was being sucked out of her body at a furious rate. Being Olivia meant feeling beaten and weak. It felt like losing, like loss.

But the quiet, the peace, the nothingness happening right now in this hospital, lets her slip into her memories - Olivia's memories - just a little bit. Just enough to open the email, to read the words Elliot had to say to her.

_Olivia,_

_Eli's 7__th__ birthday is coming up in a couple of weeks. Can you believe it? We're having his party at Puppet Works in Brooklyn, between 4__th__ and 5__th__ in Park Slope. They're doing a production of Pinocchio, but Eli heard the place was supposed to be haunted, so that's the real attraction I think. This kid…smh. But remember what it was like to want to believe? It's going to be on Saturday, the 21__st__. The show starts at 1, and we'll do cake and presents after. The'll be some classmates of Eli's and a couple grandkids I have running around. I think Noah would have fun seeing the puppets. We hope you two can make it. _

_Elliot_

_555-8172_

Olivia didn't know how Elliot knew about Noah, but of course he did. Of course. She, however, knew nothing of his grand kids. She knew nothing about him anymore. Olivia didn't know Elliot now like she didn't know Olivia anymore. But, somehow, Elliot knew who she was. He knew she was a mom. How could she be Olivia and be a mom in the same place and the same time in front of Elliot? She didn't know.

The phone number he sent wasn't the one Olivia had in her phone filed under Elliot, so she replaced it in her address book. She didn't know whether it was his home number or his cell. She didn't know, but she put it in under mobile, and opened a new text message. To Elliot, mobile.

_Hey El, _she wrote, and sent. Her number was the same. She hoped he knew. If he asked who it was texting him, she couldn't answer him. She couldn't. He'd have to know.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Sunday was Olivia's favorite day now. Her new rank as sergeant came with more obligation, but also more steadiness in terms of her work schedule. She always had the weekends off now. Saturdays were for chores; Sundays were for Noah.

Having spent the good part of the late night and early morning in the hospital, Olivia was a little less perky than her son come 8 AM. She scrambled together his milk, Cheerios, and banana – bypassing her coffee, skipping the high chair – and settled onto the sofa with Noah in her lap. As he drank from his bottle, Olivia unlocked her iPhone. She didn't have any text messages. None from her squad, and none from Elliot. She supposed he could still be sleeping, if he slept now. She didn't know. She wondered if maybe the phone number he gave in the email was not, in fact, his cell number. She didn't know.

Olivia checked her emails – nothing from anyone except Macy's, Bloomingdale's, Century 21, Pottery Barn, GrubHub, American Express, and her power company. She deleted them all except the coupon from GrubHub. There was nothing from Elliot. Nothing.

"Okay, my sweet boy," Olivia whispered to her son when he was done with his bottle. She sat him upright on her lap and let him get started on his Cheerios. Noah loved to eat. More than anything, he loved to eat. Sleep while the sun was up? Not so much, but eating he could do. Feeding him she could handle. She could do this.

"What are we going to do today, huh?" she asked. It was cold outside – blistering, face-numbing, disorientingly (was that a word? Or was it a feeling?) cold. Noah smacked his lips on a piece of banana and rubbed his pudgy gooey hands on Olivia's sleep bottoms as an answer. She didn't mind.

It was definitely a GrubHub, childrens' books, and block-castle building kind of day. It would have to be the best block castle ever built – a feat to last the entire day, something to keep her mind off her iPhone. She wasn't going to text him again until he responded. Maybe not even then. And she wasn't going to wait anymore. She'd spent enough time doing that for him.

She sat Noah on his play mat and went to make a cup of coffee. As the Keurig machine warmed up, Olivia powered down her cell phone and threw it unceremoniously (or was it a grand statement?) into the silverware drawer. It was Sunday. No one important was going to bother her, and she couldn't spend all day worrying over it, over him. Out of sight, out of mind – that's how she'd been living for four years. That's how it had to be.

Olivia watched Noah from the breakfast bar as she sipped her coffee. He was hauling his plastic ducks and cows in his fire truck. He had the right idea – stay in motion. _Keep going, buddy_, she thought. _Let's keep going_. As she drank her coffee, though, her mind couldn't stop reminding her of the iPhone in the silverware drawer. It kept making up excuses to turn it back on – maybe something would happen down at the station house. Something she wouldn't have to go in for, but something she needed to be consulted about. _Shut up_, she thought to herself. Everyone knew not to bother Olivia on Sundays. Maybe Elliot knew that, too. It didn't mean he wasn't bothering her, though.

She dug her phone out of the drawer (not as reluctantly as she'd wanted to), turned it back on, set it on the countertop, and went to work on building that monumental block castle.

The great thing about this plan, really, was that Noah was going to knock the castle over. A lot. She'd have to rebuild over and over.

By 3:00, Olivia had built about thirteen castles, read Noah more books than she could count, and was ready to order Chinese from GrubHub (lo mein only these days, because she could pick out the noodles, cut them up, and share with Noah).

While they waited on the delivery, Noah continued to play full force with his pile (landmine now, really) of toys, and Olivia clicked the TV on to Lifetime. As if she didn't have enough drama already. As if she didn't live out these devastating stories every single day of her life. But it was comforting somehow, for reasons she could not explain, to have these movies on in the background while she rested on the sofa, her eyes closing only for a minute – just resting was all.

She awoke to the sound of knocking on the door. Olivia scrambled over Noah and his menagerie of toys (thank God he didn't wander off. He was such a great kid, and she often felt like she was failing him. She didn't mean to fall sleep. She didn't mean to). She peeped through the small hole in the door (never too careful these days), and opened it for the delivery man. She signed her receipt, thanked him very much, locked the door, and took the bag over to her counter.

Mindful to pick out only the noodles, Olivia had a large pile (more really, probably, than was needed), ready to cut up for Noah. She opted, smartly – because she was by now an experienced mother – for the high chair this time.

"Here we go, big boy," she cooed to Noah as he resisted his restraints. She remained gentle and patient – no unnecessary force. When she put the plate in front of him, his demeanor quickly changed, as his attention zeroed in on the finger food. "There we go."

Olivia sat on the barstool next to Noah, and mindlessly dug into the lo mein container with her fork, now consisting mostly of chicken and vegetables and whatever kind of sauce that was. Who knew what it was, really? It didn't matter.

She tapped the home button of her phone, and saw she had a text message waiting. From Elliot. Elliot had texted her. And suddenly she wasn't so mindless, or tired, or calm, or anything like that. Her body felt panicked, as if in fight or flight mode. As if she was being held hostage again. As if she was freefalling into something she had no control over.

_you got my email, _the text message said.

_I did_, she replied, slowly. Very slowly – careful not to make any sudden movements. She had to be cautious, self-restrained. He had to make the rest of the moves.

_can you come? _He responded immediately.

_I'm not sure yet, _she shot back just as quickly. Damn. Slow down.

_i want you to, _he sent, just as she sent a follow-up excuse, _I might have to work. _Work. That was a passive-aggressive shot. You wouldn't know it, except if you knew that work was where he left her alone. It was what she was still bitter about, even though she wouldn't tell you outright. Plus, she didn't work the weekends anymore, so it was a lie.

_you don't work weekends anymore, _he said.

_You stalking me? _she asked. Ghosts. Ghosts. "_Look, I'm not trying to stalk you…_" Olivia felt sick.

_how else would i know what's going on with you?_ Elliot asked.

_You could call me, _Olivia replied, and her phone rang.

"Jesus, I didn't mean right this second," she said into the phone. _I meant like in the last four years._

"Hey, Liv," Elliot said. It was the first time she had heard his voice in all this time. How she'd missed that voice, missed him. Her throat was very dry, and she tried to clear it inaudibly.

"Elliot," she said.

"Whatcha doing?"

"Eating Chinese food."

"From where?" he asked.

She answered, "Jade Palace." Her answers were short, curt. She wanted answers first. Long, detailed, don't-leave-anything-out details of _what the hell_? That was the question, wasn't it? What the hell? Where the hell have you been?

"Nice pick." Olivia smiled at his approval (not that she needed it), and at the memories of all the times they'd shared a meal together from their favorite Chinese delivery restaurant. In his apartment or her apartment, or the station house, over files… work. Where they used to be partners, before he left her. Fuck she was bitter, despite all her effort not to be. Despite all the times she told her therapist she was over it. She wasn't. She never would be. It had been her secret beast of burden, for all this time.

"I don't know, though, El. About next weekend. I'm not sure yet."

"Okay," he said, sounding hurt, although he had no right to be. She wanted his pain to feel good to her—goddamn she was fucked up—but it didn't. His pain would never feel good to her.

"I'll see what I can do," she said to alleviate some of that ache (For her? For him?), some of that guilt—guilt she had no right feeling, really, if she rationalized it. "We'll try to be there. I'll try, El. I don't…"

"Good," he said. "Okay. Good. I…"

"I've got to go," she said, hurriedly, as if there was something she had to tend to right away. Like her emotions. Her life. She had to cut him off.

"Talk later?" he asked.

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I'll…I've gotta go, okay? Talk later."

"Bye, Liv."

Olivia hit the END button on her phone, put her head down on the countertop, and yelled, "fuck" into the granite. Noah laughed, and Olivia turned her head to smile at her son.

"Bath time! Okay, buddy?" She said as she slid off the barstool. "Bath time. Bubbles. Duckies. Doesn't that sound nice? Come on." As she lifted Noah out of his chair, and carried him into the bathroom, all Olivia could think was _fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck_, _fuck._ Elliot had thrown her life completely off balance, again. Forever. It would never stop.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thank you, everyone, for the encouragement so far. I don't believe in defending writing before you've had a chance to read it, buuuuut: I just wanted to say that I know Olivia is a workaholic, but I'm not going to focus on that aspect here. You all know about Detective Benson, but I want to write about Olivia at home - so - I'm not going to make up a fake case. Well, maybe I will - but not right now. I don't know what's going to happen. I'm just letting the characters decide where to take the story - Something the SVU writers wouldn't do. I also am ignoring whatever happened last week with revealing who Noah's father is. _Really_, writers? Come _on_. I also don't know who the hell Olivia's nanny is - I'm making her up, too. I do hope you enjoy this, though. I'll probably let you down in that I, too, am a workaholic who does many other things for the most part of my days, but I'm trying to get this nugget out of my system as fast as I can. I promise.

PS: All mistakes are mine. I don't have a beta. You wanna?

ALSO: If you haven't listened to Brandi Carlile's "The Eye", then go do it. Forreal. Most E/O fucking song I've ever heard. It's what inspired this fic, in case you didn't know.

Okay. Here we go...

Chapter 3

Olivia strolled into work on Monday morning with a pep in her step and a song in her heart. Only the song was heartbreaking, and her vigor was forced and fleeting. She spent most of the day with the door to her office closed, which, disappointingly (for her), didn't raise any red flags for her squad. She was their much-loved leader, but she was a temperamental one. Everybody had effortlessly learned to drift with her waves instead of becoming awash in her ocean. She'd earned that gravitational force, although she did not know it.

Dinner that evening was a green smoothie for Olivia and a bottle of whole milk and blended up broccoli, spinach, and apples for Noah. Judging from how the apartment looked, Noah had a busy day.

"It's okay, Lindsay," Olivia had insisted to Noah's nanny. "I know the damage Hurricane Noah leaves in his wake." The young nanny offered to stay and help clean up more and cook dinner for them both, but again, Olivia assured her it was all okay—that's what a house with a toddler in it was supposed to look like.

"Call if you need me," Lindsay insisted. Olivia knew she meant it, and that made her feel a little immoral. She didn't pay Lindsay nearly enough for how good she was to both her and Noah, how much time she devoted to her small family—all hours, any day, night, any time. So much time. Lindsay didn't have any children of her own, and she lived with her father—retired firefighter—out in Queen's. Her mother was in Idaho, remarried.

She understood Olivia's schedule and never complained or declined, bless her. She was a Godsend, and Olivia didn't know how she would ever repay her. That's why, after all day taking care of Noah, doing the laundry, the grocery shopping, and whatever errands Olivia had on any specific day of the work week, she didn't want Lindsay sticking around and doing any more work, though she wouldn't mind the company. Lindsay was dedicated, loyal, smart, patient, kind, and—most importantly—loved Noah. She was a good girl, and she wanted to do good things. She was like a daughter to Olivia, even in the short time they had known each other. She felt like part of the family, a family Olivia never imagined having. As unconventional as it was, it was just right.

After dinner and changing into their pajamas, Olivia and Noah went to watch TV in bed—she was so tired, always. Caillou – that's what Lindsay had told Olivia Noah liked to watch, so she DVR'd all the episodes. Noah was tucked into Olivia's side, resting his head (after wiggling for a little while—resisting, wanting to run loose), on the outside of her right breast. He eventually stilled, entranced with the television. Olivia didn't feel guilty, though she did feel like she was tricking him a little bit. The TV only came on when Olivia absolutely had no energy to do anything else for the rest of the day. Olivia had been raised on Sesame Street. It was okay; a little TV was okay.

When she awoke (fuck, she needed to stop drifting), it was a quarter after eleven and Noah was sound asleep, emitting little puffing sounds as he exhaled. Olivia's heart swelled, and she smiled, though he couldn't see it. She loved these moments. She loved all these moments, as difficult as it felt some of the time. Most of the time. All of the time. Noah was splayed out sideways on the bed, uncovered, without a pillow under his head. He was supposed to sleep propped up because of his breathing problems. Olivia had forgotten, but she didn't mean to fall asleep. She didn't.

She didn't want to wake him, although she didn't have a choice but to move his small body up the bed and onto the pillow. She didn't bother taking him to the crib in his small room opposite hers. They both slept better when they were together, neither having to worry so much about safety—theirs or the other's, whichever the case may be.

As if proving her point, Noah only slightly stirred as Olivia tucked him in and turned off the TV with the remote. She put the remote back in its spot on her nightstand, and picked up her cell phone that had been charging while she slept.

She had one missed call, one voice mail, three text messages, and sixteen emails waiting for her. Deciding she would check them in the order of least likely to make her get out of bed and have to go to work, she checked the emails first. Kohl's, CVS/Pharmacy, Joss &amp; Main, Redbox, Uber, American Express, , Macy's, Pottery Barn, Zillow, CitiCards, and zulily (twice) all flashed their advertisements at her as she quickly went through and deleted them.

And then she didn't know. Voicemail or Text Messages next? The texts could be nothing, just updates from her squad. Or they could be from Elliot. The voicemail could be nothing, maybe a recording from the pharmacy that it was time to pick up a medication for her or Noah, or it could be work—though she doubted it. They would have kept calling. Or it could be Elliot. Decisions are emotional, not logical, so she clicked on her Phone icon to check to see who called. It was Elliot. Of course it was Elliot, who had all of a sudden stormed back into her life.

She hit the play button and positioned the iPhone to her ear, turning down the volume so as not to wake Noah, but pressing the phone as close to her ear as was physically possible.

"Liv," he started, and her breathing paused so she could hear what Elliot had to say. "You didn't respond to my messages, and I just…I know that invite came out of nowhere. I'm sorry, I'm…I'm sorry for a lot of things, and I want to tell you about them. Can we…can we meet before then? Would that be better? For lunch, or…I don't know, you pick. Call me back, or…or text me, okay? Let me know you got this."

And then he was gone, but Olivia was awake, sitting up, bringing her knees to her chest, and putting her head between them. She was breathing in and out and thinking about breathing and trying to do it right. She listened to the message three more times, in case there was something she had missed. But she hadn't missed his words; she has missed Elliot. And he wanted to see her. She wanted to see him, too, desperately. But Olivia didn't do desperate anymore, and that realization calmed her down, steadied her. She checked her text messages: all of them from Elliot.

_"__can I call you?"_

_"__are you on a case?"_

_"__call me, liv"_

It was 11:30 p.m. when Olivia crept out of her bedroom and into the kitchen, wanting the feel of the hard tile beneath her feet and granite on her elbows instead of the soft carpeting and cushions of the living room.

She sat her phone down onto the countertop and moved to get a glass out of the cupboard and fill it with water from the tap. She was very thirsty these days. Water and sleep – she could never get enough of either. She gulped the whole glass down in one long, eager sip and filled it back up.

She moved to the other side of the breakfast bar and sat on a stool with perfect, uncomfortable posture. She reached for her glass again, took a small sip, and slouched, moving her body closer to the counter and tapping her fingers on her phone, as if she jarred it enough it would do something by itself instead of relying on her to make the commands.

She put her glass onto the counter and picked up her phone, held it with both hands and shot out a reply to Elliot over text message.

"_Got your messages. Sorry. You awake_?"

"_you know i am_," came his almost automatic reply. Olivia wondered if his phone did all the work for him, if that's why it was so easy for him to talk to her now, when she had spent four years recovering from the idea of never talking to Elliot again. So, understandably—right?—it was hard for her to start this back up again. Whatever this was. Whatever it ever was.

"_I can talk_," she wrote. Really? She wondered if she could. "_You want to text or call_?" It was whatever he wanted. This was all his doing, and he was going to make the decisions. Olivia didn't have the energy to do any more of that. He had never responded to what she wanted, anyway. She wanted explanations and comfort and companionship and safety, and he took it all away. And it was going to be hard to break through all the barriers Olivia had built – against him, against everyone except for Noah. Noah and Olivia. They were partners now. She didn't have another one.

The jarring buzz on the countertop made Olivia jump. Elliot had decided to call. She picked up her phone, abandoning her water, and hunkered into the sofa before answering. The lights were out, her focus sound.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey. You just getting in?"

"No," she laughed – as if that was a ridiculous question. He was supposed to know things about her now, she figured. That's what the evidence had suggested. It hurt her a little that he thought she wouldn't be here at midnight with her son. "No, just waking up," she clarified. "Fell asleep watching cartoons a few hours ago."

"Welcome to motherhood, Olivia," he said, and she could hear the genuine smile on the other end of the phone.

She lifted her lips and cheeks as if to smile herself, for just a second, before relaxing back into a neutral face.

"The impossible became possible," she said, gently.

"I was so happy for you when I heard…"

"How did you hear?" she interrupted. Her mood had transitioned into a sudden fierceness she had not felt in a very long time. "I meant to ask that before. How do you know all this about me when I don't even know where you've been since that day…"

"I had to get away, Olivia. I was all over the place. I was in Norfolk for…"

"But how do you know?" she asked. "How do you know about this, Elliot?"

"Fin," he said. "Munch, Cragen, Cassidy…"

"You talked to Cassidy?" she asked, disbelievingly. "When the hell…"

"People who love you," he finished.

"But not me. You didn't talk to me. You talked to everyone except for me. Why, Elliot?" her voice had cracked, letting down some of her guard, but she was desperate now to know.

"I couldn't," he said, and was silent. She couldn't hear him breathing, or shifting—she couldn't hear anything in that moment to prove he was real, and that made it easier to ask the questions she had been waiting eagerly in the back of her mind to ask since he left.

"So why now? What changed?"

"Because I'm back in the city. I'm here, and I know you're here..."

"I've always _been here_," she responded defensively, bitingly.

"I know. I know you've been here. But I wasn't. I wasn't here, Liv. In a lot of ways, I wasn't here. But I needed to come back, and I'm here. I can't…I can't _be here, _Olivia, and ignore you."

"You've ignored me for four years…"

"I wasn't ignoring you," he said.

Olivia let out a bitter laugh, "Well you fooled me, Elliot! Because from where I was, back then—when I was _here_—looking for you, begging you to call me… When I was here, fighting _without you… _When I thought I was going to die and was _desperate _for you, Elliot. I was _desperate,_ you ignored me."

Elliot was silent, so Olivia kept up her diatribe.

"And I know you _think _you know all about my life, Elliot. I know that's what you think. But you don't anymore. You never did, maybe. You know what you've heard, what you've been told, but you don't know, Elliot. You don't know what it's been like, just like I don't know…about you. We don't know each other, Elliot. How can I come to your kid's birthday party? With my kid? You don't know us. Eli doesn't know us…"

"You were there when he was born…"

"—You weren't," she cut in.

He waited a beat before shifting gears. "I know you, Liv," was all he could say. "And you know me."

"I don't…" she was a stubborn, determined woman.

"Then let's get together," he said. "Let's meet each other now. Here, I'll set us up…"

Olivia laughed, despite herself. "Like a blind date?"

"Do people do that anymore?"

"I'm sure some people do. But not us."

"How do you know that, Olivia? I don't know you, right? And you don't know me? How do you know what we do?"

"I guess, then…" she said, hesitated, considered, and impulsively, instinctively decided to respond: "we can find out."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Again, thank you guys for the encouragement! In writing this, and with you reading this now, I'm just going to assume you know what happened in the past, so all the episodes are fair game to pop up. I'd also like to say, again, that I don't know who the hell Olivia's nanny is in the show - but for this story, her name is Lindsay. And whoever it was who wanted to know if Liv has Type 2 diabetes and wondered if that's why she was so thirsty: she may indeed be diabetic, but she isn't in this story. She's just thirsty, okay? Here we go...

Lunch couldn't come soon enough, and yet it was something impending on Olivia's body and mind, like certain doom. She didn't know if she wanted it, but she couldn't not want it.

He was not going to come here, to the 1-6. She wouldn't let him, though he didn't even mention that possibility on the phone. And she was not going to tell anybody where she was going, either, though they probably already knew.

It seemed she couldn't trust anybody around her. Not that they were bad people; not that they didn't have her back when it mattered. She knew they were looking out for her – probably why they never told her they were in contact with Elliot. If she knew he was still out there somewhere alive, if she was conscious of his existence, then she couldn't have functioned. Not moved on. Functioned.

It was December 2011, twelve years into their partnership, after Olivia had lost Calvin, before a child's dead body was found on a carousel. It was late at night – the most important parts of their relationship had always been at night – their time was always in the dark – when Olivia had taken Elliot home to her apartment, to her bed, under her body, between her legs. It was December and Olivia has been alone, cold. Elliot was done with his marriage—for good now, though not yet officially.

After that first release—and God, it had been a release—they stayed up all night, just touching, looking, smiling quietly, and taking from each other. Because they could. Olivia remembered Elliot's index finger trailing over her body, beginning its path at the tip of her forehead, over that vein that had become more pronounced over the years, down to the bridge of her nose, stopping at her open mouth, where she inhaled and bit down—just a little—on that finger before he flipped her over onto her back, kissed her mouth, her cheek, her chin. With his lips, with his hands.

He explored the column of her long neck, inhaled at the apex of her shoulder, brought her long leg around his hip, and it felt good. It had felt really good. His hands, everywhere, encompassing her—steadying her—holding her down, bringing her up. It wasn't multiple orgasms and perfect stamina. At times he stilled on top of her, or she on top of him, because they needed the rest, the calm. But they lumbered along for months. Not long enough, but too long for it not to have mattered.

It was the greatest comfort Olivia had ever known, it was the consummation of a relationship that had started a long, long time ago. Forever ago, and she didn't think about it stopping. She didn't inhibit herself, moderate her feelings. Neither did he. It felt too right to need each other that way.

And then it was the middle of May, and Elliot wasn't there anymore. Olivia felt like a limb had been ripped from her, quick like a band aid. Like tape from a mouth. That fast and unexpected and painful as fuck. She could still feel that limb, but she could not touch it, and she shattered in the most damaging of ways. He didn't come to her for comfort; he didn't come to comfort her. He had given up. He had quit—something she never imagined he would do. She had wrapped his love around her like a chain, and when that chain was cut, she fell.

Summers in the city had always been stifling, but Olivia had never felt one like that. It was a long while before she stood back up.

She had always thought that everyone was replaceable. You see enough people come in and out of your life. You see how fast loved ones die. You see people moving on. But she was wrong. Rollins and Amaro and Fin and Barba were her dearest allies now. They were great detectives and friends, but they were not Elliot. Elliot was gone. And the person she had been with him—because of him—she was gone, too.

Until William Lewis had put a gun to her head, kidnapped her, drugged her, tortured her, taunted her. She found that Olivia again. The strength and desperation of her pain. Just as urgently as Elliot had ripped himself away from her, Olivia had plunged back down into herself. Until that was over, too. And then she stood back up, got dumped by Cassidy, and moved on. Replaceable.

In the elevator, Olivia stood rigid with her hands in her jacket pocket, because she didn't know what else to do with them, or how to stop them from shaking.

In the squad car she turned up the heat and opened the window, because the car was cold and so was her body, but she needed the air in her lungs. _Is this what Noah felt like_, she wondered, _when his lungs did not work_.

They met at Skylight Diner on West 34th street. Olivia got there first and ordered coffee. She sometimes drank tea, but tea is calming, and she needed to be tense.

Elliot walked in ten minutes later in jeans and a long black wool jacket. She didn't look away as he walked toward her. She smiled with her mouth closed as he took off his jacket and slid into the booth next to it. She sniffled a little bit and let out a small breath from her mouth when he looked back at her. She knew her nose was red and her eyes were wet. This is what it was like.

"Hi," he said, getting comfortable in the booth and leaning toward her with his elbows on the tabletop.

"Hi," she said back, almost in a whisper. She was blinking too much, breathing too hard. She looked down at her hands in her lap, shook her head, and let out a small laugh, which was not so much a laugh as a forced exhalation.

"Coffee," he said to the waitress, and added, "please. Have you ordered?" he asked Olivia.

"No," she said. "I was waiting for you."

"I'll give you a couple minutes to decide?" Elliot nodded, and the waitress went away.

The Skylight Diner was called Skylight Diner because—not so ironically—of the massive skylight in the ceiling. Olivia had never been there at nighttime, so she didn't know how the place was lit without sunlight. She didn't think it had a heater, either, because the light from the ceiling made the diner too stifling to need one. She rolled up her sweater sleeves and sat back in her seat.

"Do you know what you're gonna get?" Elliot asked.

"Yeah," she said. "You?"

"Yeah. I think."

Olivia tapped her fingers on her coffee mug until the waitress came back to bring Elliot his coffee and take their orders. Olivia got the tuna salad sandwich on wheat with a fruit cup side, and Elliot got chicken fingers and french-fries. They both ordered waters.

"Well, you look good," Elliot said. He was relaxed. The fucker was relaxed.

"Do I?" asked Liv, only looking up at him for a moment before returning her gaze to the coffee.

"You do," he said.

Olivia looked back up, rolled her eyes a little—not all the way, just to the right a bit, shrugged, and said, "Well." It wasn't a statement so much as a question, like, "well, what're you gonna do?" She didn't have much say in how she looked. It had been years since he had last seen her. A lot had happened. A lot had happened _to_ her, physically. Emotionally. She'd aged, but so had he.

She wasn't going to give in, she thought, though she didn't exactly know yet what it was she would be giving in to.

"So," started Elliot, with a small smile on his face. "What do you do?"

"What do you do?" she asked back.

Elliot made his face serious and said, "I asked first."

"You know what I do," Olivia answered.

"I used to," he said. "Tell me what you do now."

"I work in sex crimes," she said, coolly, making and holding eye contact. "Now you."

"I'm a grandpa," he said, and Olivia gave in with a small laugh. "And a dad."

"Do you work?" she asked.

"That _is_ work," he answered.

Olivia bit the tip of her thumb, and then asked, "What were you doing in Norfolk?"

"Consulting," he said. "Military."

"Oh yeah?" she asked, casually. But this was not casual. "How long were you there?"

Elliot answered, "A while," and then they shifted upright as the waitress laid their food in front of them.

Olivia dug into her sandwich and was very aware of Elliot's eyes on her. It should have made her feel self-conscious, but it didn't. He'd seen her eat before. He'd seen her before. She looked at him while she chewed.

"I don't what this to be so difficult," Elliot confessed in a quiet enough voice so that only Olivia could hear. "I know it's difficult, but I don't want it to be."

"I don't know," Olivia answered, and put her sandwich down. She looked at her lap. "How else can it be?"

"I didn't have a choice…" he said.

"Bullshit!" she exclaimed, aggressively, defensively, as if _calling_ bullshit, and it was loud enough for the people in the booths around them to hear. She lowered her voice and moved closer to him across the table. "You had a choice, Elliot. I know it was a messed up situation. I know how fucked up it must have made you. I know you did what you felt you had to do, but you had a choice, Elliot. You always have a choice."

"I couldn't let you talk me out of it," he explained. "_He's probably scared to talk to you, Liv_," and she was back in that bar with Fin.

"Talk you out of what?" Because she still couldn't believe he had quit.

"I couldn't go back," he said.

"What about me?" she asked, in the tiniest voice he had ever heard. Tinier than the time she had asked him that same question once before. This wasn't a surprised voice; it was a defeated voice.

"I never stopped thinking about you, Liv. Never." He said it desperately, like he meant it, but what good had it done her?

"Then why didn't you talk to me?" She didn't want to cry in this diner. That's why she agreed to go there in the first place. The light was so bright and the chatter so loud that she didn't think it would be possible to cry. "I needed you to talk to me, El." And she was crying, silently, but visibly—because that's all she could give him.

TBC


End file.
